Cold Fingers, Warm Hearts
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Sherlock can't even catch a fever like a normal person. His symptoms appear too quickly, get worse too fast, and John, who's fighting a sore throat and the shivers himself, knows it will probably get worse, for both of them, before it gets better.
1. Rain is Falling, Illness, Calling

**Cold Fingers, Warm Hearts**

1

John was shivering. Legitimate, full-blown shivering. His fingers had gone numb and he couldn't feel his toes, although he almost knew full-well that he'd gotten a lot of water down his shoes at one point. His socks were probably plastered onto his feet like a second skin, because that's exactly how his jacket was. Clinging to him, just like his trousers were, in all the wrong places.

"Sh-Sher-" he started, but the dripping consulting detective cut him off.

"Quiet." Sherlock's voice was low, layered with something that seemed like a warning. John hated it when Sherlock got into these moods, the ones where Sherlock seemed liable to snap if John didn't do exactly what he wanted. The moods that were dangerous, possibly able to be coupled with danger nights. These moods almost frightened John, although...

Not so much as the moment, when there was cold water dripping down the small of his back and he thought that his teeth were going to crack from chattering.

"Sherlock, l-let's go _h-home_," John stammered, shuffling on the spot and stamping his feet.

"Be _qui_-" Sherlock stopped suddenly. John looked at him sharply when the detective reached out for the wall, fingers clutching at the grooves between the bricks.

"Sherlock?" John asked, shuffling forward. They were both huddled under an archway of a building without much elbow room, but John carefully edged towards the front to look more closely at Sherlock. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sherlock replied, although his voice sounded a bit thin, a bit forced, and John didn't buy it at all.

"You're pale, Sherlock," John stated, abandoning shelter of the archway so he could stand in front of Sherlock. The detective looked a bit paler than usual, a bit more drawn up, and John could see the curls on Sherlock's head trembling with the shuddering of his body. Water droplets clung to the tips of his hair, his nose, running down his cheeks. John reached up and pressed his palm against Sherlock's forehead. The warmth he found there was refreshing on his frozen fingers, but worrisome in his mind.

"John..." Sherlock breathed, his breath escaping in a large, warm rush. John felt it ruffle his hair. He ignored Sherlock, bringing his other hand up, pressing either of his palms against Sherlock's cheeks. "John, I don't feel so well." The bitter voice used earlier had all but vanished, leaving only something somewhat vulnerable and a bit confused.

"Yeah, Sherlock. I can understand that; you're burning up," John muttering, removing his hands. "Oh, jeez, I need to get a cab... Stay here, okay?" John's own exhaustion and the mind-numbing cold that he had felt had all vanished with a purpose, the purpose which was now get Sherlock home and tend to him.

John took a step away and Sherlock swayed dangerously on his feet.

"Sher-_Sherlock_!" John muttered, catching the detective around the shoulders and edging him back against the wall. "Okay, sit down, _sit_," he repeated, helping Sherlock slide into a sitting position. "Take off the coat; it's sopping wet."

"D-Don't you usually worry about p-people talking...?" Sherlock murmured, not fighting John as he worked the dripping coat off.

John laughed a bit, the tone taking on a hysterical edge. "There's no one around, and I'm a doctor, and you are sick."

"Mm... I'm s-sure people will understand," Sherlock replied, laying the sarcasm on thick.

"I find that I really don't care at this particular moment," John murmured, standing. "Look, I'm going to go hail a cab. Stay here, alright?" When Sherlock didn't argue, took it as an affirmative and doubled back towards the street.

It took his five minutes in the pouring rain to hail a cab, another to walk back to Sherlock, and another four to get a half-unconscious Sherlock into the cab. All in all, ten minutes before they were safely tucked into the back of the cab, speeding through rain-drenched London.

"Did you want to go to a hospital, mate?" asked the cabbie, as he had watched warily as John all but forced Sherlock into the cab. "Or is he just bloody well pissed?"

John would have laughed, if he wasn't too worried about Sherlock. The detective had slumped against the cab window, breathing too deeply in his unconscious. "Uhm, no, no, he's not drunk. Just home, just 221B Baker Street." He leaned across the cab, pressing his hand against Sherlock's forehead again. Still warm. Too warm.

John shivered. He knew the chances of himself coming down with a fever was very, very high as well, considering the raindrops still dripping from his own clothes. Thinking of it now, he peeled his jacket off, dropping it onto the floor with Sherlock's. They were going to need a trip to the dry cleaner's- damn bloody coat of Sherlock's and its special treatment. John sighed thinly, shivering again.

"John?" Sherlock slurred, raising his head slightly from the window.

"It's fine, Sherlock. We're in a c-cab." His shivering got the better of him at the end of his statement. He mentally cursed himself; but, he had taken care of Sherlock to the point that he could at the moment, and he was starting to feel the cold again.

Sherlock raised his head slightly, blinking towards John. "You're cold," Sherlock muttered, and John watched the detective lick his lips and attempt to sit up straighter.

"I've been cold, Sherlock," John replied in a tone of mock-teasing, although he didn't quite hit the light, airy tone that he was aiming for.

Sherlock blinked slowly, sitting up straighter. John wondered how he had missed the onset of Sherlock's symptoms. They had been out in the rain for the better part of an hour and a half, in and out of shelter, but Sherlock had barely utterly ten words since their operation had begun. It wasn't uncommon, but now John was wondering just how long Sherlock had been fighting off symptoms.

"Can't get sick from being cold..." Sherlock mumbled at his side, prompting John to leave his deductions for later.

"It's cold out, Sherlock, a-and we're both drenched. And we h-have been. That prompts a fever now and again," he muttered, looking to the window. When would they get home? Baker Street had never seemed so far away as the moment when John really wanted a hot shower and paracetamol for them both.

"Three minutes..." Sherlock murmured.

John looked back at him just in time to see dark curls cascading towards him as Sherlock's head made John's shoulder into a pillow. "Sherlock?" John questioned, half chastisement, half worry. "Stay a-awake, then, if we're going to be home in three minutes." But Sherlock was dead to the world again. John resisted the urge to either bat Sherlock away or pull him closer, just kept himself quiet and unmoving for the next three minutes. When they arrived, he paid the fare and ushered a half-asleep Sherlock inside and, _finally_, out of the rain.

"Boys, is that you?"

"Yeah," John called, flinching at the slight pain the vocal sound produced. His throat wouldn't be sore yet- his body was planning in advance, it seemed. Or else he was just mental. That was likely, too. "Yeah, we're back." He closed and bolted the door, still supporting Sherlock on one side. "Sherlock, come on, budge up..." he muttered just as Mrs. Hudson opened the door to her own flat.

"Oh, dear, you two look like a couple of drowned rats. Let me get you some blankets and a cuppa!" she stated, all in a flurry, after one glance at them.

John smiled faintly. "Yeah, thanks. 'm s-sure he'll appreciate that," he said.

A few longer, painstaking minutes later, John had guided Sherlock (and, in the process, woke him up a bit more) up the stairs and into their flat.

"You're going to need to change. _Now_, Sherlock," John said, giving Sherlock a gentle push towards the hallway.

The detective stumbled and caught himself on the doorframe, giving John a somewhat dirty look. "I can walk."

"Just d-don't pass out," John said, lingering in the kitchen doorway as Sherlock vanished back to his bedroom. Only after he had seen that Sherlock made it into his room did he backtrack and take the stairs two at a time to his own room. He had his shirt off and trousers unbuttoned before he'd even opened his door, determined to get dry clothes on for the moment. He ended up using one of his throw blankets as a towel and changed into the warmest jumper and sweatpants (no dignity right now, whatsoever) that he could find.

And then he was back downstairs, ignoring his body still shivering in an attempt to conduct heat. He ran into Mrs. Hudson on the stairs.

"Here, dear," she said, handing him a cup of tea. He took it gratefully, curling his frozen fingers around the warm cup. He took a quick drink, refusing to wince when it burned the entire way down. It was hot, and hot was what he needed right now. Marginally warm, at least, anyway.

"Ta," he allowed, after swallowing down another mouthful. He let her wrap a blanket around his shoulders before he took the other mug. "I'll take this back to him." With minor fussing from their landlady, and a few extra blankets, John quickly retreated to Sherlock's bedroom.

"Sherlock? Have you changed yet?" John asked, warily stopping around the corner. He had found out, too many times before, just how Sherlock slept (and that was in the nude). He didn't need that image right now, on top of everything else.

Sherlock gave a grunt, one that John took as a hopeful affirmative. He raised his eyes from the floor and took the few short steps into the bedroom. Sherlock was nearly completely buried under the blankets and duvet on the bed, only his eyes and his still-wet hair visible.

"I brought tea," John said.

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking towards John. "I t-think I want to sleep now, J-John."

"If only you said that on a normal basis," John muttered to himself, stepping around Sherlock's discarded sopping clothes. "Take the tea, it'll help warm you up. Not that your body's cold, but..."

Sherlock didn't respond, only sat up slightly. The blankets fell away from him, leaving John with half of the problem that he had been trying to avoid since walking into the room.

"You're not wearing any clothes!"

"Sleeping," Sherlock muttered, reaching forward and taking the mug from John.

"You need clothes, Sherlock, you need the warmth."

"Sleeping, I'm g-going to sleep. Don't sleep in c-clothes," Sherlock replied, raising the mug to his lips.

"Okay, no, you're getting dressed. And your hair's still wet... Do you not know how to take care of yourself at all?" John griped, although he knew the answer. Of course Sherlock didn't. This was the man who would stumble back into the flat, bruised and bloodied, and try to slip away to his bedroom without admitting anything was wrong.

John grabbed the discarded towel that Sherlock must have grabbed from the bathroom, folding it up and walking back to Sherlock. "Hang on a sec," he said, practically forcing the mug from Sherlock as the latter complained. "Just wait!" he demanded, throwing the towel over Sherlock's head and towel-drying the dripping curls.

"Wha- What are you d-doing?" Sherlock stammered, blindly managing to catch John's wrist and force his hands away.

"Dry your hair."

Sherlock huffed, removing the towel so he could see. He gave John one of those annoyed looks, but did as he was told.

John had moved away when Sherlock made it apparent that he would follow his commands. He pulled open one of the drawers to Sherlock's dresser, pawing through the clothes to look for something warm that Sherlock could wear. He felt Sherlock's eyes on his back until he turned back around, and caught Sherlock's gaze going back to the mug full of tea.

"Put these on," John said, tossing Sherlock the closest thing that the man had to a sweater to wear and heavier pajama pants. "I'm getting a shower." He retrieved his own mug from Sherlock's nightstand, drinking down the rest of it. "You get dressed, and I'll be back in a few."

John stepped into the bathroom, pausing in the doorway. "And stay out," he reminded, sliding the door shut before locking it. He closed the hallway door, locking that as well, although he doubted Sherlock would be out of his room.

John turned on the hot water and shed his clothes yet again, stepping into the shower quickly. The only thing John hated about showering when Sherlock was in his bedroom was the bloody connecting door. He wouldn't care about just being in the room next to Sherlock, if the detective didn't have a damn door from his bedroom to the bathroom. Sure, John had locked the door, but he was sure Sherlock could get in if he wanted to.

He grumbled on to himself about bathroom doors and sick patients throughout his shower (which, admittingly, lasted about five minutes). He had only grabbed his towel when a loud crash from the kitchen made him jump.

"Sherlock?" John fumbled to wrap the towel around himself and unlock the hallway door. "I thought I told you to stay in bed!" John stated, keeping the panic out of his voice fairly well. He stepped into the kitchen, eyeing Sherlock's back. At least the detective had clothed himself now. "Sherlock?" That's when John noticed the broken glass littering the floor around Sherlock's feet. "Shit- Are you okay?" he asked.

Sherlock looked around at him, eyes glossy and distant. "Fine..."

"Sherlock?" John frowned. "Stay there," he said, stepping back into the bathroom to slip his shoes back on. He went back into Sherlock's room and found the detective's shoes, before rejoining him in the kitchen. "Put your shoes on," he said. "Don't want to get glass in your feet..." he muttered. It took a few seconds, a few concerned seconds, on John's behalf, to get Sherlock to comply. "What were you trying to do?" he muttered.

"Making more tea," Sherlock replied in a dull tone of stating the obvious.

"Right..." John replied. "Okay, back to bed."

"I want tea," Sherlock replied stubbornly.

"Yes, well, you see how that worked out. I'll make you tea in a minute," he said. Trying to persuade Sherlock to do something he didn't want to was like trying to catch smoke. "Back to bed."

"No."

"Sherlock." John's patience was wearing thin, what with the addition of a sore throat and utter exhaustion. The hot shower had relaxed him (relaxed him to the point where he _could_ relax, anyway) and now, aware of every ache and pain pervading his body, he just wanted to get some sleep.

Sherlock sighed quietly. John looked at him right when he swayed. He felt his eyes go wide. "Sherlock!" He managed to catch him against his chest, but the additional weight put him off-balance. He hit the floor hard, throwing his arms around Sherlock to keep him from rolling off onto the floor. "Sherlock? Come on, wake up. You can't sleep here..." he muttered. "Come on, Sherlock..."

He was burning up. Sherlock didn't do anything like a normal person, did he? He didn't even catch a fever normally!

John removed his arms to reposition his towel, which he had come very close to losing in the tumble. He tightened it and shifted his position, locking his arms under Sherlock's to get them both on their feet. He stumbled with Sherlock's dead weight, but managed to get the detective back to his bed without many added injuries.

He followed up with redressing and throwing his dressing gown on, grabbing the bottle of paracetamol from the cabinet before doubling back to Sherlock's room. "Wake up, Sherlock." He tapped Sherlock's face lightly, trying to rouse him. It worked, after a few moments, and John was able to get the correct dosage of medicine in Sherlock's system before he fell back asleep.

Then, and only then, John returned to the kitchen to clean up the mess. It was the sugar jar that Sherlock had, presumably, dropped. He made himself another cuppa, relishing in the warmth. He was starting to shiver again. He wasn't really cold, he knew that, but he couldn't stop himself from grabbing the blanket from earlier and wrapping it around himself. It would only raise his temperature, but, even being a doctor, he couldn't bring himself to sit and shiver.

He returned to Sherlock's room shortly, having a wet cloth at the ready. He placed it on Sherlock's forehead, getting a slurred grumble from him and nothing else.

"Get some sleep, Sherlock..." John muttered, flipping off the light. "I'll be upstairs if you need me."

With that, John turned and trudged back to his room, planning on getting at least a bit of sleep to try to fend off the worst of his impending illness.

Of course, it made sense, when John knew that Sherlock was ill just downstairs, John found that he couldn't sleep.

* * *

**If you follow me, you're probably saying ****_Oh, _****another****_ sick!fic?_**** Yes. Yes, it is. I am sorry, if you are tired of these. But I didn't have a multi with a real plot to work on, so I was going a bit crazy. So, thanks for reading the opening chapter and I hope you want to read the rests! Favs/Follows/Reviews are appreciated!**


	2. It's Not Normal Having Two Thermometers?

**2**

"John..."

John could only make out the slightest calling of his name, although whether it was in his unconscious, or conscious, he couldn't tell.

"John..."

John pried his eyes open slightly, blinking hard against the morning light streaming in the sitting room. He'd ended up falling asleep on the sofa- insomnia had overtaken him as well as sickness, and he had spent the better part of the night pattering between his room and Sherlock's room before he had flopped, exhausted, onto the sofa. From there, he must have fallen asleep.

"John...!"

Not in his unconscious, then.

"Yeah!" he called- or tried to. His voice gave out on a particularly nasty wheezing sound; he was overtaken by a coughing fit not seconds later. Oh, this was going to be a doozy.

Massaging his chest and taking deep breath through his nose, he trudged back to Sherlock's room. The detective was half-sitting in bed, looking bedraggled and unkept. Half of his face was hidden behind a hand, his fingers rubbing at one of his eyes.

"You okay?" John rasped, trying to clear his throat. He needed tea, but Sherlock had been oh-so-subtly demanding his attention upon waking.

"I... I feel a bit... I'm fine," he eventually said, shoving the blankets off.

"Sherlock..." John started, but not before the lanky detective had made the effort to stand. It didn't go over well, just as John had predicted, and Sherlock staggered. On reflex, John shot forward to prevent him from falling, but... that movement didn't go over so well with _him_.

The world decided to spin at the oddest angle, twisting everything in Sherlock's room up into one big blur. He squeezed his eyes shut and clung to Sherlock's dressing gown, for support of his own now, fighting the overwhelming notion of his stomach trying to turn itself inside-out.

It took all of what seemed to John to be a long, five minutes (it was probably only about thirty seconds, really) for the silence to break.

"You're unwell," Sherlock stated blandly.

John laughed, only the slightest noise escaping his mouth as he forced himself to back away. He risked opening his eyes before he did- the world seemed to have steadied itself remarkably, so he took the chance. He didn't fall over, so that was a good sign. "Sorry about that... You're sick, too."

"I'm not..." Sherlock trailed off, fumbling for words that had obviously slipped his mind. "I'm not..."

"Don't bother trying to say that you're not sick, because the facts state otherwise," John replied, taking Sherlock's arms and guiding the man back into a sitting position on the bed. "You need to rest," he stated, with as much authority as he could muster over a hoarse voice and a pounding headache. "I'm going to make some tea..." he finished calmly, turning and making for the door.

He shivered his way through making tea, but managed it slightly better than Sherlock had last night; he didn't break anything, at least. He relished in the initial warmth of the first sip of hot tea, like last night, mentally sighing at the predicament. Of course he would be sick when Sherlock was sick. Of _course_ he would be sick when he had to take care of Sherlock.

And, _of course_, Sherlock was going to be a bloody _awful _patient.

When he returned to Sherlock's room, the detective was gone. But John found him quickly enough, risking a glance into the bathroom as he heard running water. Sherlock was at the sink, and as John watched, he spat out a mouthful of water before dropping his toothbrush on the counter. He noticed John's gaze just as he was rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I thought I told you to stay in bed."

"Mouth was... unpleasant," he stated calmly, carefully edging back to the bed. "Being sick provides a wide range of unpleasant..."

"Tastes?" John supplied, passing over a cup of tea to Sherlock.

"Unpleasantness in general," Sherlock finished, raising the cup to his lips. No more than had he taken a small sip of it did he stiffen. John paused with his cup halfway to his lips as he noticed the colour draining from Sherlock's face, the reflexive swallowing, the slightest tightening of his lips...

Sherlock sat the cup down quickly before curling onto his side, wrenching the blankets over his head.

"Sherlock, _please_, if you're going to be sick, go to the toilet," John stated quickly, watching the unmoving lump under the blankets. "It's not healthy."

A thin "stop" wavered out from under the blankets. John sighed and sipped at his own cup of tea, watching the blankets for a moment longer before he trudged back to the kitchen. Hopefully, Sherlock would stay in bed, and John could catch a few more hours, too. Of course, he knew this was almost physically impossible, but he also thought, what with the sickness, maybe the unexpected could happen.

He pressed his cold fingers tighter against the mug, wondering just how high his own fever was. Oh, right, _stupid_- he should have taken Sherlock's temperature _before_ giving him the tea. Oh well.

He retreated back to the sofa, sinking down heavily.

His head was pounding, matching the steady beat of his heart in his chest. He was cold and his body was trying to make up for it; his shivering caused the the surface of his tea to ripple. He felt like he'd woken up on the bad side of an intense hangover, a hangover that had started and ended with him spending a night in the snow. However, he knew that his body was really too hot and that it had been brought on by rain, not snow. He also figured that he was probably going to get dehydrated- planning ahead, unfortunately. His stomach hadn't felt quite right since he'd woken up, but he hadn't been about to abandon morning tea. He grabbed the blankets that he had dragged down from his bedroom and promptly curled up in them. There, that was... nice.

He took another drink of his tea, unhappy to find that the warm drink was almost gone. He didn't want to get back up- he was comfortable and the blankets _might_ make him feel a bit warmer, after all. So, he just carefully sat the mug down on the coffee table, leaning back with a heavy sigh afterwards.

He did a bit of what seemed to be dozing for an uncertain amount of time. He was woken up by shuffling in the kitchen. John persuaded his eyes open, looking wearily into the next room.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" he murmured, before he had even fully look up.

"I..." Sherlock's voice was distant, no hint of any dedication in it. John frowned at him. "I don't know..." Sherlock finished.

"You need to sleep," John muttered, clearing his throat again. He fought his way out of the blankets, fighting the exhaustion that wasn't leaving. "You need to stay in bed..." He stood unsteadily, ignoring the steady ache of pain as he stood. He hadn't been entirely non-sore before, but now he just felt like he'd been run over by a truck. He risked a glance at the clock, noting that he had been sleeping, sitting up, for the better part of an hour and a half. No wonder his neck hurt now.

He picked up his mug and walked to the kitchen. "Oh, you haven't had anything to drink, yeah?" he said, remembering the fact that he wanted to take Sherlock's temperature.

Sherlock shook his head. "Need more tea..."

"In a sec," John replied, turning to the hall. "I need the thermometer..."

In the time that John walked to the bathroom, dislodged the thermometer from behind the hydrogen peroxide and his toothpaste, and walked back into the kitchen, Sherlock had retreated to the living room and had swathed himself in the blankets that had, until recently, been John's. The only thing that John could see of Sherlock was his nose up.

"Oh, please don't wipe your mouth on my blankets..." John muttered, crossing the room. He pulled the blankets away from Sherlock's mouth and down past his neck. "Take your temp," he said, holding out the thermometer to Sherlock.

"Oh, please-"

"Take your temperature."

"Around thirty seven."

"Sherlock," John muttered, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and pressing the thermometer into his hand.

Sherlock sighed heavily through his nose, bringing the thermometer up to eye-level as he inspected it. After a moment, in which he seemed pleased with the physical state or well-being, or whatnot, of the medical instrument, he placed the thermometer under his tongue.

"Thank you..." John muttered.

A few seconds later, John took the thermometer from Sherlock's mouth when it beeped. He eyed it briefly, expecting to see a variation of the thirty-sevens. Instead, thirty-eight point eight. John frowned as he paused in walking back to the bathroom.

Best not let Sherlock know he was wrong, for now, anyway.

More paracetamol.

"Anything wrong?" Sherlock muttered, voice muffled. John imagined that he had pulled the blankets over his mouth again.

"... Nauseous," John replied shortly. It wasn't entirely a lie.

He carried on back to the bathroom, grabbing the opposite thermometer from the cabinet. They had two. John had long ago since decided against putting anything that had been in Sherlock's mouth, in his own. Separate mugs, separate toothbrushes (obviously), separate thermometers. It made perfect sense.

Oh, _hell_, no, it didn't. _Nothing_ about their... partnership made sense at all.

He took his own temperature and arrived at an even more unhappy conclusion when he found that it was thirty-seven point five- chances were, he'd get worse before he got better.

Nonetheless, Sherlock was worse off right now, so John would take care of him.

John would always take care of him...

* * *

**Warm hearts [I haven't gotten to the cold fingers yet! Haha.] This chapter's a bit shorter. Blame my other ****_Cabin Pressure_**** sick!fic. [Either way, Ben's character is the one getting ill. Totally different characters, but... I like sick!fics! And Benedict! xD] **

**For those who have said that John should be sick and Sherlock should be taking care of him, I don't know where the story will evolve to just yet, but I've already written a doctor?!Sherlock fic. [And it's mildly difficult to make Sherlock care...]**

**Thanks for the support! I appreciate it greatly!**


	3. I'm Sorry For Being Me

**3**

Two hours of complete silence did nothing to help John. His head just increased in the pounding, he got colder, his shivering intensified, and his throat started to ache worse. He had the notion to get up, make some tea, put some honey in it and go back to bed, but he didn't want to get up. He didn't want to move.

Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch, but he had woken up again in the past ten minutes. He had just been laying there, staring at the ceiling, clutching the one blanket that he had (John had taken the rest for fear of Sherlock's temperature skyrocketing) and never moving. John could see him shivering, and see him breathing, but he never moved otherwise.

John felt the tickle in the back of his throat a half second before he started coughing. And it wasn't just one of those little coughs, a hide-behind-your-hand cough, but one of those long-winded spells that left you breathless.

And he... couldn't... stop... _coughing_!

"John..." Sherlock moaned weakly.

John relinquished his grip on the blanket, instead snaking his arms around his stomach and doubling over in his chair.

"John... stop..." Sherlock muttered, pushing himself up.

"Can't... breathe...!" John forced out, pressing a hand over his mouth afterwards. Breathe through nose, breathe, breathe, he had to breathe...

"Breathing is essential..." Sherlock mumbled vaguely. John felt his eyes on him. "What am I supposed to _do_?" Sherlock asked abruptly, exasperation and something the closest to human worry that John had ever heard leaking into his voice.

"... H-Honey..." John rasped, pressing his fingers into his chest.

"Excuse me?"

John shook his head, unable to get the words out again.

"Ho- _oh_. Honey," Sherlock repeated. Footsteps told John that Sherlock was retreating. What seemed to be so many painstaking moments later, Sherlock returned with a spoon and the honey jar. "It... uhm, it helps with cough, right?" Sherlock murmured.

It took three minutes for John to get his breath back, because, thankfully, the honey did help. For now. This time.

"... Thanks..." he whispered, sinking low in his chair. His stomach hurt, his chest hurt, his throat hurt, his head was pounding, and he was dancing precariously close to unconsciousness. He was just... tired.

Sherlock had been hovering close to him, had actually slumped against the back of the chair in waiting for John to catch his breath. Now, as John looked back at him, he realized just how pale Sherlock was.

"You okay...?" he murmured, twisting slightly in the chair.

Sherlock nodded slightly. He looked apt to speak, so John gave him a few seconds of silence as a prompt, which worked. "You..." He cleared his throat. "You need to have more paracetamol."

John blinked in surprise. Whatever he had expected, it hadn't been that. "Yeah... maybe," he murmured. "You, too."

Sherlock shook his head slightly.

"Sherlock..."

"I'm intolerant."

"What?" John frowned, shifting a bit more to fully look at Sherlock. "You- intolerant? To paracetamol?"

"Give or take," Sherlock muttered, his body giving a shudder as a chill must have run through him.

"Oh- what do you take, then?" John said, pushing himself out of the chair. He could order it for Sherlock, as long as it wasn't some obscure drug. He couldn't get, and _wouldn't_ get, certain things, especially for Sherlock.

"Oh, Nurofen Plus," Sherlock replied, his voice taking on the tone of nonchalance.

"N-_Nurofen Plus_?" John repeated, looking at him. "No."

Sherlock frowned. "Why not?"

"Codeine, Sherlock. _Codeine_," John said. "I am not giving you that. I'll get you Nurofen Express, and that's the best that I can do."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose slightly but sighed afterwards. "Fine."

John looked back at him, pausing as he walked around the kitchen table. The fact that Sherlock wasn't arguing was enough to make John believe that he needed to get that Nurofen quite quickly. "Let me get your temperature again, Sherlock..." he murmured, tracking back to the bathroom. "And then get some ice water."

He grabbed the thermometer and returned to the living room, where Sherlock had once again retreated to the sofa. "Here." Sherlock took it simply, although he did give John the depraving look that he had before. John returned it with a weak smile, raising a hand and pressing it flat against Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock stiffened, looking up at him. John expected a livid glare. What he got was unhappiness and confusion and probably what would have been the Sherlock equivalent of puppy eyes. It was just... vulnerability conveyed in one glance.

"I'll get down to Tesco's," John murmured, removing his hand.

Sherlock apparently tried to respond because John got a lot of 'mmmph' in return to that statement. When it beeped, Sherlock removed the thermometer. "You're unwell," he said.

"And that's the second time that you've said that, Sherlock," John muttered, prying the thermometer away from Sherlock. He ignored the fact that it was covered in saliva and peered at the reading- thirty-nine even. It wasn't much worse, but it wasn't any better. He needed to get that medicine or Sherlock's temperature was going to skyrocket come nightfall.

John turned away, but Sherlock grabbed his shoulder. He was standing now, and he spun John carefully around and pressed his hand against his forehead. John blinked, again, in surprise, looking up at the detective.

"Thirty... Thirty seven," Sherlock muttered unassuredly, frowning. He removed his hand and, before John could predict any other movement, the detective had leaned forward and pressed his forehead against John's.

"Wha- What are you doing?" John stammered, only holding his breath after that. He didn't want Sherlock's germs, but he didn't want Sherlock to get his, either.

"You're so warm..." Sherlock murmured. His breath was delightfully warm across his face, and John got a whiff of peppermint and tea. "I-I can't tell- I'm freezing but you're warm, and, w-well, I know you're warm, because you're sick, but you feel warm to me because _I'm _sick..." Sherlock stammered. He removed his forehead from John's, his fingers circling around his wrist.

"Sherlock..."

"Your pulse is accelerated, so there's a definite sign of a f-fever." Sherlock's teeth were chattering. John wanted to get him back to bed and get medicine in him. "Your face is flushed and you're shivering. You've been coughing..." Sherlock removed his fingers from John's wrist, instead splaying a hand across John's chest.

John should have been bothered by the exam that Sherlock was giving him. He, probably, rightfully, should have been. But, he wasn't. He couldn't, he just... he didn't care. He didn't care what his temperature was or how his pulse was or what his breathing felt like under his jumper. He just wanted to make sure Sherlock was going to be fine.

"Sherlock."

"I kn-know that you've had a h-headache and- and that you were nauseous, s-so it's probably relatively high, higher than it w-was, so, thirty... thirty-seven point eight?" Sherlock removed his hand, worrying his lip between his teeth. "I could be off anywhere from f-four to s-six degrees..."

"_Sherlock_," John said, gripping Sherlock's arms. "It's fine. I'm fine. Go back to bed. I'll be b-back soon. You need rest."

"_You _need r-rest," Sherlock repeated stubbornly.

"A doctor takes care of a patient first."

"I'm not a patient."

"Yes, you are." It was the rapid-fire response that Sherlock was looking for, John knew it was, but he couldn't help it. He didn't want to explain. He just wanted to get down to damn Tesco's and but the medicine, get another cup of tea, and definitely go back to bed. He wanted to have some toast with honey, but the toast made his stomach turn. He wanted to take a long, relaxing shower, except the hot water would do more harm than good. And he couldn't fathom taking a cold one right now, he just couldn't.

"No, I'm not!"

"_Stop arguing_!" The shout tore a whole new fresh path of utmost _pain_ down John's throat when he yelled it. And he hadn't even intended to; it just happened. He shocked himself with his exclamation, Sherlock even flinched, and a look that John had seen once (and only once) before crossed the detective's face. It was... kind of a desolate look. John immediately regretted his outburst. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm..." He threw his hands up. "I'm sorry. I'm tired. We're both sick. We need rest."

"Right."

"Sherlock-"

"It's fine, John."

He tried again. "Sherlock-"

"Leave it alone."

John frowned, resisting the overwhelming emotion rushing through his body. He didn't know if he wanted to laugh or cry or scream, really, in that moment. Sherlock had turned and was stumbling back towards his room. John watched his retreating back, finally settling on something dangerously close to a mental breakdown.

He didn't have time to dwell on it, thankfully.

Sherlock stumbled sideways into the kitchen table, nearly falling over the chair.

"Sherlock," John said, crossing the room and placing a hand on Sherlock's back. "Come on..." Together, they made it back to Sherlock's bedroom without taking any plaster out of the wall or receiving any bruises. Silence enveloped the room for a long while.

"I'm sorry that I shouted at you," John said quietly, after some time.

"Sorry that I'm terrible," Sherlock mumbled.

John looked at him. "What?"

"'m stupidly hard to handle..." Sherlock leaned sideways against the headboard, resting his head against the wall. "Sally's right..."

"_What?_" John repeated. Sherlock wasn't really saying this, was he? Because all the crap that people said just rolled right off his back. Insults didn't bother him. Did they?

"Freak..." Sherlock mumbled.

"Oh... oh, God, Sherlock, that's not true," John said. "You're, well, you can be uncooperative and tactless and rude, but..." He shook his head. "That's- what they say isn't true. You're a good person." He didn't know how to explain it. He had never thought about it. He _had_, of course, noticed (and been annoyed) every time that a rude remark about Sherlock came out of someone's mouth, but he hadn't thought that he would ever have to _explain_- not to _Sherlock_. "You can't listen to them, they're not... they're just idiots. They don't know you. _I _know you, and... I know it's not true."

It was only then that John realized that he wasn't getting a response. "Sherlock?" He leaned over, looking into Sherlock's face. "Sherlock?" He caught Sherlock's wrist between his fingers, checking the pulse. It was racing, product of the fever, most likely. Sherlock had fallen asleep.

John eased Sherlock away from the wall, got him into bed in the proper position before retreating from the room. He needed to get to Tesco's. He needed that medicine for Sherlock. Fever be damned, he was going to Tesco's. He might regret it later, but not now... Not when Sherlock was spouting nonsense about himself being a freak, about actually _listening_ to Sally and Anderson and most of the rest of the community...

He stepped into his shoes and clumsily worked his arms through the sleeves in his jacket before heading to the door. He'd be back before Sherlock even woke up. He _would_ be here when Sherlock woke up. He would be. Even when no one else would, John would always be there.

* * *

**Oh. I really like this chapter. This is the nice thing about sick!fics; I've written a bunch, and I've never touched on such extremes of vulnerability and care as I have here, in my opinion. Anyway, I love a) the idea of John shouting at Sherlock and Sherlock being affected by it because John's the only one who ****_really_**** accepts him, b) Sherlock admitting that the insults get to him, and c) Sherlock trying and failing to (correctly) analyze John's illness due to his own. Oh, and d) Sherlock being intolerant to paracetamol because of his past, implied drug habits.**

**Readers have to understand that there is a level of illness here that is influencing certain actions and thoughts, and that I'm trying to stay in character as much as I can with the addition of the illness. Hopefully, the readers like it, and don't think it's atrocious. **

**Thanks for following the story!**


	4. He Needs You, John

**4**

The trip to Tesco's was probably a bad idea.

John had realized that it was going to be a poor idea to go out when he was this ill, to begin with. But, that hadn't stopped him, and he'd gone out to Tesco's.

Now, _after_ the trip to Tesco's, he realized just how bad of an idea that it had been.

He had only managed to get up the stairs by himself before he almost crashed into the door, clutching at the doorframe for support. He was having trouble breathing again, his chest hurt, along with the rest of his body, to be frank, and his heartbeat was pounding in his head, in his ears.

The bag from Tesco's hit the floor heavily as he rested his head against the door, his grip tenacious around the door.

"... John...?"

"Yeah... I'm back..." John breathed, barely able to get the words out before he started coughing again. It wasn't one of the bad coughs, but he'd been coughing ever since walking down the medicine aisle. Working himself too hard, probably...

His legs gave out from under him and he slid to the ground, knitting his fingers around the neckline of his jumper.

"John?" Sherlock peered around the corner of the kitchen.

"Got your medicine... it's there..." he breathed, waving a hand towards the bag. "There..." He coughed again, flinching. A low moan escaped his lips before he clenched his teeth, scrambling to find purchase on the door to stand up.

"John."

John glanced up, blinking in surprise at Sherlock's sudden proximity and the hand being held out to him. It took him a second too long to reach up and grasp it, but Sherlock still helped him to his feet.

"Now... Take the... the Nurofen and..." He shivered hard, pressing closer to the warmth that was Sherlock's body heat. It was unconscious, an instinct. If you were cold, you burrowed closer to something (or someone) warm. There was nothing to be ashamed of. (Besides, John would have loved to have had the capacity to be embarrassed right now- it would have warmed him up.)

Apparently, and quite rightly, Sherlock hadn't expected John to press closer. The additional pressure, apparently, put him off balance, because he stumbled backwards. John gripped onto Sherlock's dressing gown with a small cry of alarm as they both toppled backwards.

Sherlock locked his arms around John before they hit the floor, so he didn't go rolling off into tables or couches or lamps. He moaned again, quietly, smothering the noise in Sherlock's shirt, trying to ignore his head and his stomach and his ears and his throat...

The arms around him were warm. Comforting. A physical presence. John was grateful. He always liked to have a physical presence with him when he was sick. Someone there to protect him. Someone there, so he knew that even if things went awry, someone else could pick up where he left up. Someone that would tell him that everything would be okay, comfort him while he was lost in the hazes of sickness...

"Your fever's gone up." It took the rumbling voice at his ear to make him remember that this was Sherlock-freaking-Holmes. A physical presence, but definitely not one of the safest. Definitely not one that would comfort him while he was sick. Definitely not someone he wanted to cuddle (or get caught "cuddling") with.

He pushed himself away, but the world was spinning. Even sitting down, he swayed slightly. Sherlock steadied him. John didn't notice, as he was too busy trying to _not_ vomit on the sitting room floor.

"John...?"

"Oh, shi-" He clamped a hand over his mouth, scrambling to his feet. He got as far as the trash bin. It was a battle between his pride and his stomach. It seemed like his pride never won anything.

When he was quite sure that breakfast, lunch, dinner, or tea wasn't going to try and dispel itself further, he pushed away from the counter. He was shaking and he had to blink away unshed tears in order to look into the living room. Sherlock hadn't moved from the floor, but was leaning back against the wall, appearing to have fallen asleep. The bottle of Nurofen was at Sherlock's side, out of the package, so John assumed that Sherlock had taken (the correct dosage of) the medicine.

"Sherlock..." he breathed, clenching his hands into fists as another tremor wracked his body. "Sherlock, go to bed."

Groaning, he crossed the room and grabbed Sherlock's arm, hauling himself to his feet. "Up," he hissed, admist Sherlock protesting the rough treatment. "Bed."

"John," Sherlock moaned, drawing out the syllables in agitation. John probably would laughed, if he hadn't felt so bad.

"Don't be a child," John retorted, placing his hand against Sherlock's back and giving him a weak push towards the hall.

Sherlock muttered something, but he trotted off towards his bedroom. He paused at the beginning of the hall, looking back towards John. "... Go to bed, too."

John smiled faintly, watching Sherlock's retreating back.

* * *

He had managed to get some sleep after Sherlock had gone to bed. He hadn't taken his temperature; he didn't want to know. However, he had given up most of his blankets in favour of shivering himself to sleep, because he _knew_ his fever was getting bad. He didn't want it to get worse.

Now, he had been awakened by _something_. He didn't quite know what. He lay, stretched out on the couch, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what had woken him up.

And then, there it was again.

Not exactly a snuffle, but sort of-

A _whimper_.

John nearly fell off the couch in his haste to stand, scrambling back to Sherlock's room. "Sherlock!" If he had been cold before, it was nothing to this, this sort of mind-numbing moment that turned his blood to ice. Because Sherlock Holmes did _not_ whimper. "Sherlock!"

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" He stopped inside the door of Sherlock's room, swaying lightly. Sherlock was still in bed, presumably asleep. He didn't _look_ right, though. Sherlock was a very obnoxious sleeper. He took up most of the bed (when he actually slept in bed, that was) in a sprawled-out fashion, looking quite utterly the picture of perfect peace. Now, he was curled up, knees drawn up to his chest, trembling slightly. His face was the _farthest_ from a peaceful expression that John had seen.

As John watched, Sherlock shifted uneasily, burying his face into his pillow, eliciting another half-muffled whimper that was _not supposed_ to come from Sherlock Holmes.

It was enough for John, who was torn between flinching and wanting to cover his ears to avoid hearing. He moved forward, grabbing Sherlock's shoulder and shaking it roughly. "Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up. You're just dreaming." He shook Sherlock's shoulder a bit more. "Wake up-"

Sherlock awoke suddenly with a gasp.

And, quite suddenly, after a moment where John didn't know what the _hell_ happened, he was on flat on his back on the opposite side of Sherlock's bed, being pinned by the consulting detective by a hand on his chest and a well-placed knee. He blinked up at Sherlock, trying to ignore the spinning of the world and the now doubled (tripled?) vision. "S-Sherlock..." he gasped. "Wha..." He clamped his mouth shut in favour of not vomiting, staring up at Sherlock with what must have been a wide-eyed expression.

It was easy to read the anger from Sherlock- heavy breathing, nostrils flaring, the emotion quite clear in his eyes. But, there was also something about the body language that portrayed fear. The way that he had John pinned, tactical defenses like fingers pressing into his chest, the knee to the groin, the wary, hazy look in his eyes.

"Sherlock..." John whispered. "It's me..."

Confusion seemed to flicker across Sherlock's face, and, for a moment, doubt, before the look cleared from Sherlock's eyes. John sighed a nearly imperceptible breath of relief.

"John..." Sherlock muttered, shaking his head slightly. Eyebrows knitting together, he rolled off of John, flopping onto his back and placing an arm over his eyes.

"Sher-" John's voice broke. He cleared his throat, trying again. "Sherlock, what was that?"

Sherlock didn't respond. John sat up slightly, watching Sherlock's fingers trembling, watching the laboured breathing and the quick rise and fall of Sherlock's chest.

"I..." Sherlock cleared his throat. He hadn't removed his arm. "I..."

"Sherlock, everything's okay," John said quietly.

Sherlock let out a deep breath, probably one that he hadn't been aware that he'd been holding. "I know." He removed his arm in favour of pressing his fingers against his eyes. "I have night terrors. Sometimes." His voice was clipped. "When I have fevers."

"Oh," John replied lamely.

Anywhere from one to three percent of adults had night terrors. It would make sense that Sherlock would be one of those one to three percent, didn't it? Especially since he had a very inadequate diet and a terrible lack of sleep.

"... Sorry if I woke you," Sherlock murmured.

"What?" John looked at Sherlock again. "No, no, it's fine. I mean..." He shook his head. "We all have our moments."

"But I don't."

"Yes, you do," John replied, pausing to cough. He had been feeling better, or maybe he hadn't really been feeling at all, since he'd been worrying about Sherlock. But now it was starting to come back to him, unfortunately. He could stand another dose of paracetamol. More water, too. He was going to get dehydrated quicker if he didn't keep drinking something... "I'll be right back," he said, carefully slipping out of Sherlock's bed.

It took more than a few minutes to get more medicine, to get a wet cloth, and to get water bottles. John returned to Sherlock's room to find the detective scrubbing at his eyes again. He didn't ask.

"Water. Drink it," he said, unceremoniously plopping the wet cloth onto Sherlock's forehead as he placed the water bottle on the night stand. "You've only been asleep a couple hours. Go back to sleep and when you wake up, more Nurofen." He turned and headed back for the hall. He was doing nothing except sleeping, but he was so damn _tired_, and he planned on actually going upstairs to his bed for a kip now...

"Jo-"

John caught the syllable even though Sherlock had apparently thought better of what he had been about to say. He looked back at Sherlock. "Huh?"

"Nothing."

"What did you want, Sherlock?" John asked patiently. Sherlock didn't reply. "Whatever it is, I'll do it if it's not so outlandish."

"I-" Sherlock broke off again, a look of distress crossing his face. He seemed, literally, unable to get the words out. "The-The nightmares, uhm-"

"Sherlock." Sherlock looked at him. "What is it?" he asked again, leaning heavily against the door. His legs were going to go soon. He couldn't keep standing here.

"... Mmph." Sherlock rolled over onto his side, turning his back to John.

John sighed and turned away, walking back through the hallway. He grabbed his mobile off the coffee table. Against his better judgement, he stopped on _Mycroft_'s name under his contacts, opening up the text screen.

_SOS_  
_- John_

(He had never used to sign his name, but then Sherlock had started texting Mycroft annoying messages via his mobile, and Mycroft had berated him about it before John had been able to explain that it _hadn't been him_. Sherlock had thought that that episode had been rather humourous.)

Not ten seconds later, John's mobile was ringing.

_"What has my Brother done now?"_ was Mycroft's opening message.

"He's sick," John replied. He meant to say something else, but he sneezed just then, and, unabashedly, groaned in pain afterwards.

_"It seems as though_ you're_ sick, Doctor Watson."_

"We're both sick," John retorted, rubbing his nose on his sleeve and grabbing for a blanket.

_"I'm not Sherlock's medical support, John. I would think that you would be the only one who could take care of him."_

"I am taking care of him!" John retorted, bristling. "He wants something, though, and he won't tell me."

_"Why would you imagine that_ I _would know what my Brother wants."_

"You did live with him, didn't you?"

_"Living with him does not grant access to his mind, John. You should know that better than all of us."_

John sighed in exasperation. It was so very clear that Mycroft and Sherlock were related; they had enough stubbornness to supply the entire world. And they were both so very irritating. "_Listen to me_," he hissed. "He's having night terrors and I- well, he wants something from me. I wanted to know if you would happen to know what it is he might want. If not, that's fine, I'm going to go back to bed and hope Sherlock is fine."

_"... Ah."_ Mycroft was silent for a moment. _"He's having the dreams?"_

"So, this has happened before."

_"Once or twice. Sherlock was never one to spend his time being ill."_

"Great," John said sarcastically. "What can I do?"

_"If he's asking for something without_ really_ asking, he probably wants you."_

"He has me," John replied immediately.

_"Hm, no, that's not exactly the same thing."_

"Can't _one_ of you two just give me a straight answer?" John griped. The anger level was rising again. He didn't need to blow his top off again. He didn't need to shout at another one of the Holmes Brothers, much less one that controlled the British government.

_"Physical contact, John. He wants_ you_."_

John froze in attempting to fix his blankets. "Huh?" He didn't know if Mycroft was trying to hint towards something unsavoury or if there was something just... innocent about it. There was probably nothing unsavoury about it at all. John was just paranoid, since generally most of the population thought that he was gay.

_"Don't imagine that I've resorted to such base designs as contemplating you and my Brother's sexuality, John. I meant that a close, warm, physical presence helps keep the nightmares away. Surely you can comprehend that fact."_

"Oh," John replied lamely.

_"He _is_ rather like a child in that respect."_

John was quiet, pondering the idea. Sherlock needed the physical contact. Of course John understood that. Especially after he'd been "cuddling" with Sherlock on the floor and wishing nothing else but being able to stay in that protecting embrace. But... nightmares meant sleeping. Sleeping meant bed (generally). If Sherlock needed him close by, they'd end up... sharing. A bed. It wouldn't be the first time that he'd had to do something of the sort- he had been in the army, for crying out loud. Sometimes, they hadn't even had the place to _sleep_, and when they had, it wasn't like they had had copious amounts of space. But, this was _Sherlock_...

_"John?"_

John flinched, pressing his mobile firmly back to his ear. "Yeah. Yeah, thanks. I'll... see what I can do." He ended the call, dropping the phone onto the couch. It bounced slightly. John put his head in his hands. What would he do for Sherlock Holmes?

Although, John reasoned, as he stood unsteady, the better question was...

What _wouldn't_ he do for Sherlock Holmes?

* * *

**OH MY- I DIDN'T REALIZE HOW MUCH LONGER IT WAS UNTIL I PAUSED IN WRITING AND LOOKED BACK. But... x'D **

**Anyway, awkwardness will ensue, but also some serious insight to their relationship. Partnership. ****_Platonic_**** relationship. Whatever you want to call it. Poor boys. They just can't seem to stay on their feet. And, really, John, it was just stupid to go to Tesco's. xD I'm a silly author.**

**Your support is lovely, as ever. :)**

**P.S. I really push the boundaries of platonic fluff, don't I? Oh, I just- I love cutesy fluffy stuff that would make them both embarrassed if they remember if when they're completely well and in their right minds. xD Hopefully, my non-shipping readers don't mind. I assure you, I write everything with the intention of it not being slash, no matter how it seems.**


	5. Nightmares and Showing They Care

**5**

He paused for a long moment outside of Sherlock's room. It shouldn't bother him. It really shouldn't. It was just Sherlock. They had been in this situation before- except John was going to sleep on the floor. So, okay, not exactly the same situation. But, it was only Sherlock. Sherlock, the one who was married to his work. The one who didn't have an _ounce_ of romance in his body. Why should this matter? _Why?_ Except, maybe, because Sherlock was a _man_. Maybe because John wasn't _gay_. Maybe because it was just plain _awkward_-

"John," Sherlock rasped from inside his room. John flinched slightly. A red hot flash of embarrassment flashed through John. Oh, how could he even blush? He didn't have the strength to do anything _else_- "Stop hovering and come in."

John swallowed, fanning his face slightly. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't notice his blushing. He always noticed, _always, always, always_, but he _was_ sick...

Oh, bloody hell. He was just going to share a bed with him. He wasn't going to... _sleep sleep_ with him. This was ridiculous.

He marched into Sherlock's room, not stopping in the doorway or at Sherlock's confused glance. If he stopped walking, he wouldn't go through with it.

"What are you-"

"Budge over."

"What?"

"_Budge_-"

"I heard you, but I don't understand what you're gett-" Sherlock started to say as he moved over. John cut him off by stripping the sheet back, crawling into bed next to Sherlock. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and tried to ignore the sudden silence coming from his... flatmate.

John counted at least two minutes of silence before Sherlock moved a bit. Just an imperceptible shifting of his weight, but he had at least frozen from his (surprised?) position. John let out a breath that he didn't know he was holding.

"If you want something, just ask," he said quietly.

"You said 'not so outlandish'," Sherlock replied, equally quiet. "Isn't... uhm, bed-sharing considered outlandish."

"Sherlock, outlandish is picking up a head from the morgue and having to go to Tesco's with it to pick up, I don't know, baking soda or something. That's outlandish."

"... Well, yes, yes, that is a little outlandish. I'd have you bring the head home first..."

John laughed quietly, coughing into his arm. "Spare me the embarrassment of walking through Tesco's with a severed head."

"Embarrassment?" Sherlock echoed, looking sideways at John.

"Uhh... nevermind." He wasn't going to explain sentiment to Sherlock right now. Maybe later. Actually, probably never. Sherlock would never get it.

There was another silence. Sherlock broke it this time.

"You talked to Mycroft." It wasn't a question.

"Well, I figured if you wouldn't tell me..."

"Right. Now he's going to bother me later..."

"You could have just told me."

"No, I couldn't have."

John looked at him. "Why not?" Sherlock didn't reply again. "Your inability to express your human nee-"

"John." Sherlock was looking at him again, his eyes glittering with something that John couldn't quite figure out. It seemed something like... desperation.

"It wouldn't kill you to admit that you're human," he muttered. "It might help your... delusions of grandeur."

Sherlock laughed quietly, a raspy sound caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. "They're not delusions."

"So you say," John murmured, resisting the urge to smile again.

Things were getting messed up. He found that he didn't care now, at all, about being in the same bed with Sherlock. If he thought about it, then, yeah, there was something kind of awkward... But, unconsciously, he was fine. And it was nice. Bloody hell, it was nice. They weren't touching, but John could feel the heat radiating off of Sherlock's body. That was a bad thing, John reasoned, but it was so _nice_. He was sure it was probably vice versa for Sherlock, his body heat being nice for the consulting detective. But, there was a little bit of warmth and John didn't care _where_ it came from, because it was finally seeping through his blanket of cold.

More importantly, Sherlock seemed perfectly at ease. His eyes were closed, breathing even, and he looked more peaceful than he had. That was good. Very good...

John forced his eyes open again (they had closed unconsciously), taking in Sherlock's expression. He rarely got to see Sherlock sleep, to see Sherlock relax. It was under bad circumstances, but it was still... nice. So nice...

His eyes fluttered shut again. He just wanted to sleep...

He couldn't sleep, he had to watch over Sherlock, had to make sure his consulting detective would be okay...

* * *

"Sherlock- Sherlock, _wake up_!" John shook Sherlock's shoulder, gripping his shirt. "Come on, come on..." he muttered.

The night terrors had started again. Mycroft was _wrong_, physical presence didn't help...!

"Sherlock!"

John had his own sort of night terrors, once in awhile, from his experiences in Afghanistan. But he hadn't ever witnessed one from the _outside_-

"Wake up!" His voice broke as he grabbed both of Sherlock's shoulders, gripping them tight enough to leave bruises.

Night terrors occurred during Stage 3 or Stage 4 of sleep, the deepest levels of sleep. It was a minor miracle that Sherlock had woken up so easily before, but no such luck now.

Sherlock had started moving about restlessly, which was what had woken John up in the first place. Now, it was back to the whimpering and it almost seemed like Sherlock was in _pain_-

"Come on, Sherlock... Come on..." he murmured, still trying to rouse the detective. "Wake up..."

Sherlock thrashed to his right. John just managed to get a grip on his shirt before he could pitch himself onto the floor. John locked his arms around him, tugging him away from the edge of the bed. "Come on, come on, come on..." he muttered, tucking Sherlock's head under his chin. "I'm right here, wake up, it's fine, nothing's- nothing's wrong, Sherlock," he breathed, Sherlock's hair tickling his chin. "Please..."

He felt a change in Sherlock's position, a sort of energy that just as quickly drained and took the tension with it.

"Sherlock...?" John asked hesitantly, yet not releasing him.

"... Awake..." Sherlock rasped.

John let out a breath. "Oh, good..." He removed his arms, shifting away and back to his side of the bed. However, when Sherlock didn't move asides from the heavy rise and fall of his shoulders, John wondered if that had been the best idea. "Are you okay...?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

John propped himself up. "Sherlock?"

A breathless, shaking sigh came from the body next to him.

"Sherlock."

"Fine," was the choked response.

"Are you crying?" he asked, stupidly, in return. To be truthful, asking that probably would have done more harm than good in a normal setting. It probably didn't do much good at the present time, either. "Sherlock?" He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and persuaded him into turning over to face John.

Sherlock wasn't crying, but his eyes were squeezed shut tightly. His fingers were fisted around the blankets, his breathing was still heavy, and he was trembling so hard that John could feel it.

"I'm sorry..." John said, impromptu, feeling the inane urge to apologize for something, anything.

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, as if he didn't want to face reality or face John. There was confusion in those assessing eyes, but John was more concerned about the distant look. His eyes were clouded over, far away. John frowned, quickly pressing his fingers against Sherlock's forehead. It was burning hot.

"Why're you... apologizing?" Sherlock murmured, closing his eyes again as John's fingers probed against his forehead.

"You're burning up," John muttered. He was cut off by the tickle in his throat and he turned in time to avoid coughing in Sherlock's face, instead muffling it into the pillow.

"Don't... apologize for that..." Sherlock murmured.

"N-No, you're burning up," John replied, coughing into his sleeve now as he tried to slide out of bed. He needed to get Sherlock's temperature down... As much as he needed to get his own temperature down, he hadn't quite gotten to the point where Sherlock was, in this illness, so he had to take care of him first.

Sherlock's hand shot out from the blankets, catching John's wrist. John stopped, looking back at Sherlock.

"Don't go."

"Sherlock..." John muttered.

"You-You said that..." he broke off, coughing harshly. "... if I wanted something, to-to tell you."

"What is it you want?"

Sherlock's fingers tightened around John's wrist in response. John frowned, his eyes flickering from Sherlock's hand on his wrist to Sherlock's face.

"You need cold cloths and ice and stuff, Sherlock."

No response.

"I need to take your temperature, too."

Still nothing.

"I can't do that while I'm in here."

Silence.

"I need to go get the stuff."

Sherlock's fingers constricted, slightly.

John watched him, doing a bit of mental dithering on the spot. "... In a bit, then," he finally said, laying back down again. Sherlock's fingers didn't release John's wrist, although the finger placement twitched slightly. John had the distinct impression that Sherlock was taking his pulse.

John didn't mind the notion; he was too busy watching Sherlock's face. They were laying on their sides, towards each other now. Sherlock's eyes were closed again, his breathing still heavier than it should have been. The lingering remnants of a nightmare gone bad... John wondered what he was dreaming about.

Curiosity killed the cat, but the cat was half-dead right now, anyway, and John didn't see why he shouldn't know.

"What have you been dreaming about...?" he murmured, reaching out a hand to push Sherlock's bangs away from his forehead. He was so hot... That part scared John, just a bit. He was used to dealing with sick people, but he usually didn't watch someone he cared about deteriorating before his own eyes.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open again, the hazy look still in them. "What...?"

"The dreams. The night terrors."

"Oh..."

John waited, but prompted the detective again when he didn't respond. "The dreams?"

"... Mmph... you..." Sherlock mumbled, his eyes closed again.

"What?"

"... you... case... murder...ed..."

Those were the only words that John could make out, but the pieces clicked together well enough.

"... Nobody will take me away from you," he said shortly, ducking his head slightly. He wouldn't meet Sherlock's eyes when he said. It was just... it had been an unspoken thing throughout their partnership. He had never _had_ to say it out loud. But, now, John figured it was probably the thing that Sherlock needed to hear. (Chances were, he probably wouldn't remember anything from the first night terror onwards, anyway.)

Sherlock's fingers once again formed a sort of restraint on John's wrist. If it had been anyone else, well, mainly if it had been a girlfriend, John would have pushed the physical contact notion. He could have intertwined their fingers, snaked his arms around him and held him close. Proving that he _would_ be there. But this was Sherlock Holmes, and, ill or not, they just couldn't do that. Some boundaries couldn't be ignored.

So, he was fine with the fingers around his wrist and he didn't complain when Sherlock shifted closer. Under the circumstances, this was the best that they could do. Under the circumstances, John was fine with whatever Sherlock wanted.

Under the circumstances... John was actually... kind of... happy.

* * *

**Sherlock has entered the more dangerous levels of illness... and when the concentration's away, the thoughts will play. Unconscious relevations... -Smiles-**

**And John's determined to help him, even when he's getting more ill himself. It doesn't take Sherlock to figure out how ****_that's_**** going to end.**

**Your thoughts are always appreciated!**


	6. Unheard Gratitude and Delirious Rantings

**6**

"You know... I like living with you."

John was talking to himself. Sherlock had fallen asleep. Passed out. Whatever it was.

"You've known that. Yeah, of course you've known that. Uhhhm. My dreams went away. For the most part. The-The sort of night terror ones. And the normal nightmares, too," John muttered.

Sherlock had stopped trembling, but that was probably because he was asleep. The gooseflesh on his arms stated that he was still cold, however. At least he wasn't dreaming. He wasn't dreaming terrible dreams, at least. Hopefully, he was dreaming good dreams. With a fever, though...

"Y-You... you pulled me back from the brink of depression," John muttered, wrenching the blanket closer to him. He was cold... so cold. He'd gotten out of bed for not even five minutes, to use the loo, to get a cold cloth for Sherlock's forehead, to get himself a bottle of cold water. He was trembling hard from his bare feet against the floor, from the frigid cloth in his fingers, from the icy water he had forced himself to drink. He had curled back up in bed next to Sherlock, teeth chattering, blinking away a few black spots as they tried to take his vision. He wouldn't fall asleep, not right now.

"Of course, if-if it wasn't for me, you'd probably be dead by now, too," he said stubbornly. That whole thing with bloody pill was still too... unhealthy for him to think about as much as he did. What if Sherlock had chosen wrong? Taken the wrong pill? What if John hadn't found them until thirty seconds later? Would Sherlock have been the one collapsed on the floor, dead, having been poisoned, having choked on his own vomit? The options were terrifying, frankly, to think about.

However, that night, that first night of living in 221B, he had slept _perfectly_. The best he had since he had been invalided home, in fact. He had killed someone, true, true, but... he had protected someone in the process. Someone who needed protecting...

John started coughing again. He buried his face into the pillow in hopes of muffling the sound. He didn't want to wake Sherlock up. The man rarely slept. Maybe this would do him some good. Not the illness, obviously, but the sleep. Sherlock needed the sleep...

He managed to get a deep breath of air through his nose before he was taken over by the spell again. He tried not to imagine passing out next to his flatmate, in bed, because he couldn't breathe for coughing. That was just... dumb. Just purely idiotic. It was going to take a lot more than that to take down John Watson.

That being said, he couldn't feel his throat and blackness was blooming across his vision again by the time that he managed to draw in a deep breath without producing ill effects. He pressed his hands, shaking hands, against his eyes, desperate to push away any form of sleep. He was fighting a losing battle.

Just like Sherlock had come to realize, sleep always won in the end.

* * *

"John..."

John blinked his eyes open, unable to see through a sort of fog covering his vision. His heart was pounding rapidly in his ears. He was surprised that he had heard Sherlock at all.

"... 'lock?" he murmured, blinking hard again. The darkness cleared and he was left peering into the face of Sherlock Holmes. He was much too close; their noses were almost touching, but there was no amount of panic or embarrassment or _prompt_ to tell John to move away.

"You were muttering... muttering in your sleep."

"Oh." He couldn't remember dreaming. He just remembered being too cold, but feeling like his skin was burning. It had been an overall unpleasant feeling.

Silence enveloped the room.

John felt himself just starting to drift back off when Sherlock's baritone nudged him back to consciousness.

"What were you... dreaming about?"

John pried his eyes open again, almost smiling at the reciprocation of the question he had asked earlier. "I don't know..." he replied honestly. He didn't remember the dream, although, maybe it was better than he didn't. Especially if it had been unpleasant.

John shifted the blanket, pulling it closer. He wasn't sure if he was even cold anymore; it was just a trained habit now to seek more warmth. He pressed his face further into the pillow, moving a bit away from Sherlock's face now, sighing thinly.

He freed the hand that wasn't holding the blanket to test Sherlock's temperature. Until now, they had been, essentially, grasping each other's wrists. John didn't know if he had unconsciously locked onto Sherlock's wrist during a dream, or if he had just been taking his pulse and forgotten, but the steady thrum of Sherlock's pulse under John's fingers was peaceful. Reassuring.

But now he had given up that reassuring thrum to move onto something less reassuring: Sherlock's forehead. Much less reassuring. The intensity of the warmth prompted a few alarms in John's mind, more urgent than before. He clumsily pushed away the blanket and struggled to get to his feet.

Sherlock didn't say anything, although those metallic eyes were watching, albeit distantly, as John slunk through the bathroom. He picked up the thermometer from the counter and trudged back to Sherlock. "Temp," he muttered, leaning heavily against the bed frame to wait for the reading.

He had only gotten up because he knew Sherlock's temperature had skyrocketed. The preparation didn't help when he found that that temperature was forty point two.

He had really passed to a stage of danger.

"I've got to call the hospital..." he muttered, clearing his throat slightly. This was too dangerous; John knew high fevers and he knew what they could do to the brain.

"What? Why?" Sherlock rasped, sitting up. He immediately slumped back against the headboard with a slight gasp, losing the last bit of colour that he had had.

"Sh- Sherlock, stop moving," John demanded, placing a hand on the consulting detective's shoulder. "Lay down..."

"John," Sherlock started, voice clipped.

John cut him off. "Lay down."

"No 'ospitals," Sherlock retorted. His words got caught, tangled up, meshed together as Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed briefly.

"Sherlock?"

"Not. Going," Sherlock hissed, his eyes opened and locked on John again.

"Sherlock, you have to-"

"No."

"You know as well as I what can happen!"

"No."

"I'm not arguing, Sherlock," John muttered, turning away. He didn't care _what_ Sherlock wanted right now. He might bend to Sherlock's will at any other time, but, in the sickroom, he was _John's_ patient.

Fingers caught at the back of his jumper, and he only managed to keep his balance. He shot a glare back at Sherlock- couldn't he just _stop arguing_, for once in his _life_- trying his best to give Sherlock the stubborn look that meant he was going to lose this argument.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice, or care, only tangled his fingers around the hem of John's jumper. "No..."

John pulled out of Sherlock's grasp. He wasn't going to do this now. Not right now.

"John...! I-I'm not going, I'm not- I'm fine." Sherlock fought off the blanket, stumbling onto his feet. "Fine, fine, fine," he muttered, voice distant.

"Sher-Sherlock...!" John moved forward, curling his fingers around Sherlock's arms. He forced him back into a sitting position, muttering under his breath. It was mainly abuse towards Sherlock's attitude, but it was really a coping mechanism. He'd never seen Sherlock like this and he, frankly, never wanted to again. "Stay there, don't move, I won't call the hospital. It's okay," he muttered. Sherlock was beyond comprehension, really. "Stay," he repeated, exiting the room only when he was sure Sherlock looked like he wasn't going to move.

He grabbed the Nurofen and hastily returned to the bedroom. "Here, take this... Medicine, water, sleep, and we'll see if we can get this fever down," he murmured. Sherlock took the medication simply enough. He wasn't arguing now. John almost wished that he was. He never got a happy medium.

"Okay, okay, lay down," John murmured, his voice cutting out. He immediately started coughing; _damn_, he'd forgotten all about himself during the little situation. He pressed his hand over his mouth, willing himself to stop coughing. Of course, it didn't work that way, but he liked to think it would. "Lay _down_," he coughed, pressing on Sherlock's shoulder to force him to lay back.

He abandoned Sherlock in favour of nipping to the kitchen to grab the honey again- damn cough. He rummaged through the fridge as he licked the honey off of his spoon, grabbing a handful of ice. He dumped it into a bowl, adding cold water. He sighed wearily, now going through the cupboards, finding the small spice rack where he kept the small bottle of peppermint oil. John didn't let Sherlock touch some of the spices and stuff that he kept; they had good medicinal properties that he could use now and again.

He stumbled back into the bedroom, nearly spilling the bowl of water. He placed the bowl on the nightstand, dipping the cloth into it before wringing it out. He placed it on Sherlock's forehead, frowning at Sherlock's eyelids fluttering slightly, but not opening. He seemed to have fallen asleep again, which was probably for the best.

He uncapped the peppermint oil, rubbing a generous amount on his hands. He then pressed his palms against Sherlock's cheeks. His palms were tingling already from the peppermint oil. It was great for fevers, but could be a strange trip to la-la land if you used too much. He had had a bad run in with it a few years back. But it had helped. Hopefully it helped now.

He rubbed his hands on his trousers, sighing heavily as he collapsed back on the bed. He wanted to sleep... but he had to take care of Sherlock.

* * *

Two hours, three bowls of ice water, freezing fingers, and a bedroom that smelled like peppermint later, Sherlock's fever had dipped to thirty-nine point seven.

And John was seeing black dots across his vision.

He didn't want to know his temperature; he didn't want to know what he looked like, he didn't want to see, he didn't want to hear, he didn't want to _do anything_. He had the most austere thought of going to take a very hot shower, although he also had the slightest idea that that wouldn't be all that good. He _knew_ that there was a reason as to why it wasn't good, but he didn't exactly... remember.

Oh well. He just wouldn't take the shower. Even if it was damn cold.

He pressed his palm against Sherlock's forehead again, pleased with the miniscule difference in temperature. At least it had gone down below forty. At least he had medicine in his system to fight it. At least he had been getting help from cold cloths and peppermint oil... At least... he appeared to be getting better...

At least...

* * *

**... And the last sane thought in John's is Sherlock's health. **

**[I like messing with Sherlock's vulnerabilities when it comes to hospitals. Like Mycroft not wanting to bother with the dentist, I don't think Sherlock would be able to handle being tied at a hospital very well. And that's that. It just got a little bit expressive in this chapter because Sherlock's a bit... delirious.]**

**Your thoughts would be great and, as always, thanks!**


	7. I Will Not Admit to That

**7**

John awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed. His stomach was churning and he swallowed back a groan, fighting off the blankets. He managed to stumble painstakingly to the bathroom to avoid getting sick all over Sherlock's bedroom floor.

It wasn't until he had managed to get back on his feet and rinse his mouth out before he realized that he had been in bed, alone. No Sherlock.

He stumbled into the hallway. His balance was off and he tripped over something, probably his own feet, pitching forward into the opposite wall. He caught himself, but it didn't stop him from sliding to the floor. He coughed slightly, fingers curling around the neck of his shirt. Chest hurt, couldn't breathe...

He let his eyes slip shut, relishing in the cool blackness that quickly encompassed the world.

"John?"

John opened his eyes again, a tremor ripping through his body. Sherlock was standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the doorframe for support. He looked... well.

John meant to respond, or maybe he didn't, but all that he ended up eliciting was a groan.

"-think you should be in bed," was what he heard from Sherlock. He was pretty sure he hadn't heard the whole sentence. Sherlock didn't, typically, speak so inarticulately.

'Been in bed' was what John tried to say, although it came out more as a jumbled mess of indecipherable noise.

"I speak English, John. Not 'idiot'."

There was movement in front of him and John forced his eyes open. Sherlock was standing in front of him, holding out a hand. John stared at it.

"Oh, for-" Sherlock started, grabbing John's arm and pulling him to his feet.

"Sh-" John tried to complain, but he didn't have the breath, and from the moment that he was back on his feet, the world was spinning. He toppled sideways and had the immediate, frightening feeling of falling.

"John!" Quickly, there were arms around him, keeping him steady. John blinked slowly, wondering why he wasn't hitting the floor or the wall, before he slowly realized that Sherlock was pretty much his only support.

"... Warm," John muttered, pressing closer to Sherlock.

"Jo- _What_ are you doing?"

"You're warm..." he muttered, clearing his throat a bit in order to speak better.

"That would be the fever affecting your judgement, I believe. Back to bed." Sherlock gave John a little push. John stumbled forward, although Sherlock kept a hand on his shoulder.

"Why ever I have given my bed up to you now, I haven't the slightest idea," Sherlock muttered as John gratefully sank onto the duvet again. He was so tired... So very mentally... and physically... exhausted. He sighed quietly, eyes flickering closed.

There was pressure on his forehead, but he ignored it altogether. He just wanted to go back to sleep...

"John?"

Disgruntled, John opened his eyes yet again, ready to tell Sherlock off for bothering him.

"Take your temperature," Sherlock cut in smoothly, all but forcing the thermometer into John's mouth. John gave a disgusted exhale through his nose, closing his eyes again.

* * *

"John, I'm not sure..." The voice he was hearing trailed off, too low for John's ears. He tried to open his eyes to face Sherlock, because who else would it be, besides Sherlock?, but it was a losing battle. He was just exhausted. He was too hot, but he was shaking, although he didn't know what from. He didn't feel cold. Oh, _hell_, he was confused. There was something cool on his forehead, but he couldn't decipher what it was through the pain. His head hurt... Oh, his head hurt...

* * *

_Sherlock was standing over him, expression fierce. He wasn't looking at him, he was looking away, but John could see just half of the expression on the detective's face._

_"Sherlock?" he asked, his voice cracking. It was too far away, distant and yielding no results. Sherlock didn't move, probably not hearing. "Sherlock?" he tried again, a well of frustration as he received no response._

_"Sherlock, what-" He sat up in bed, reaching up to grab Sherlock's shoulder. He tried to persuade Sherlock to look at him, and he did._

_He immediately wished he hadn't._

_Blood was dripping from Sherlock's hairline, from his eyes, his nose, bubbling up around the corners of his mouth. He was pale, too pale, deathly pale... The light had gone out from his eyes, a desolate look there instead. The fierce look was still on his face, contrary to the look in his eyes, a strange contradiction-_

"John, John, _John_!"

John awoke with a start. His fingers curled immediately around the arms in front of him, the ones that were gripping his shoulders. He realized, belatedly, that it was Sherlock gripping his shoulders, something that looked like panic in his eyes.

"John?"

John felt his fingers slipping from Sherlock's arms as he slipped from consciousness again.

* * *

He woke up feeling unrefreshed. He was tired and achy and sweaty, the blanket was sticking to him and his throat was dry. He blinked his eyes open wearily, squinting against the light in the room. He let them close again, licking his lips slightly. He was thirsty... He was probably dehydrated, to be frank.

He placed a hand flat on the mattress to push himself up, but Sherlock's hand was suddenly back on his shoulder. John's eyes flickered towards the detective laying next to him. "Sherlock...?" John muttered, flinching at his hoarse voice. He tried to clear it but couldn't- he really needed that drink.

"... You're actually with me this time?" Sherlock replied, his tone wary.

John frowned. "What do you mean?" He coughed slightly. Sherlock blinked and rolled over, grabbing a bottle of water from the nightstand. "Thanks," John muttered as Sherlock offered it. He popped the cap and took a long drink, looking back at Sherlock afterwards. "What did you mean? About the- the being with you thing?"

Sherlock had sat up, had drawn his legs up to criss-cross them. "You've been conscious, but not awake," Sherlock said. "Dreaming a bit, I think."

"Was I?" John muttered, frowning. He was trying to remember dreaming... He couldn't remember much past falling asleep after taking care of Sherlock, after finally getting Sherlock's temperature to finally drop... "Oh! Sherlock, you should be sleeping, I mean, wait, how long have I been asleep?" John muttered, leaning forward in bed to reach for Sherlock's forehead. He leaned out of the way.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock said. "The fever has dropped to a solid thirty-eight point six. Your fever, however-"

John cut him off. "Thirty-_eight _point _six_? You should be sleeping." John turned his head to cough into his arm. The world shifted dangerously. He stopped moving.

"Your fever," Sherlock continued, "is still at thirty-nine point three. Take more paracetamol." As Sherlock said it, he once again turned to the nightstand to grab the bottle of paracetamol.

John took the bottle, dumping two of the pills into his hand. "What is all that?" he asked, nodding towards the stuff on the nightstand. Water bottles, the bowl of water from earlier and John thought that maybe there were ice cubes in it. The cloth was draped over the side of the bowl.

"You should know."

"The ice would have melted by now, and, really, how long _have_ I been asleep?"

"About ten hours."

John choked on the water he was drinking. "T-Ten hours?" he spluttered, Sherlock's eyes taking on an annoyed, but somewhat wary, look. "I've been asleep for ten hours? Wait, since your fever fell?" He eyed Sherlock carefully, thinking back. Ten hours since he'd fallen asleep on taking care of Sherlock-

He flinched as a sudden, sharp throbbing started in his head again.

"John, I really think you should be laying down."

John shook his head slightly, sitting up. He pushed away from the bed, putting his feet on the floor. He felt... rather disgusting. He needed a shower, although it probably wasn't still a good idea, if he still had that fever that Sherlock said.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock demanded, sliding off the bed as well. He looked prepared to _force_ John to lay down. At any other moment, John might had noticed the fierce look and took heed of it. Right now, he noticed it, but didn't care.

He pushed himself up, swaying slightly as he stood. Thirty-nine or not, he still felt _immensely_ better than he had.

"John."

John gave him a disdainful look. "The bathroom, Sherlock."

"Is that really necessary?" Sherlock monotoned in return.

John frowned, namely in disbelief. "You're- are you really asking me that?"

"All I'm saying, John, is that the human bladder-"

"_O_kay, I'm going to the bathroom, Sherlock. It won't-" he paused to cough, "won't kill me."

"Apparently not," Sherlock replied sarcastically.

John just rolled his eyes, walking around the bed and to the bathroom door. He paused in the doorway. "You... Well, I could be wrong, but... You weren't taking care of me, were you? Because I thought I sort of remembered you over me with the-the cloth or something."

Sherlock didn't reply immediately. However, when he did look up, he was frowning at John. "Weren't you doing something?"

John blinked before a small smile played along his lips. Of course Sherlock wouldn't own up to taking care of him. Of course he wouldn't.

Of course, John could be conjuring up ideas that had never happened.

But, he liked to think of the alternative. Because it was just very... human. Humanish. Kind of caring. It made him think that Sherlock maybe did care a little about him. Just a little.

He ended up brushing his teeth and washing his face as well before stumbling back to Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock was sprawled out on the bed, his arms beneath his head. John smiled at his profile slightly. "I'm glad you're feeling better." The five words slipped out on their own, leaving John feeling, oddly, embarrassed after saying them.

Sherlock snorted. "Illness is a despairing waste of time."

John shrugged a bit, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Ah, well, I'm going back to bed." He turned for the hall door.

"John."

He glanced back, swaying a bit. He needed to sit down...

"The bed's right here."

One second of silence, two seconds of silence...

John felt himself go red.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said, having glanced at him during the silence. "We've been sharing for over a day now, conscious or not. It's not the time to have your delicate misgivings come to light; you'll never make it up those stairs in your state."

"I'll take the couch," John said.

Sherlock sighed heavily, getting to his feet. He ripped one of the blankets from the bed, drawing it up in his arms. "_I'll _sleep on the couch. You take the bed. You're still sick."

"So are you," John retorted, losing an inch as he slid down the wall slightly.

"John."

Sherlock looked at him evenly, eyes assessing but stubborn. His mind was made up, then. John looked back at him for a moment, eyes flickering from Sherlock's eyes to Sherlock's cheeks to Sherlock's posture, checking and analyzing, looking for anything that might say otherwise about his state of health.

Of course, John probably would have missed everything of importance, anyway.

He sighed slightly, pushing away from the wall. "Fine. I'm too exhausted to argue," he muttered, passing Sherlock and dropping himself onto the bed. He grabbed the blanket and rolled over, burying his face into the pillow.

Sherlock's bare feet padded away quietly. John heard him pause. But then he continued on, the small noise of movement diminishing as he walked away.

John could have imagined it, too, but he thought he had heard Sherlock tell him 'good night'.

* * *

**Well... I feel like I should apologize for this chapter. **

**[Sherlock's nightmares are dreams about John getting hurt. John's nightmares are dreams about Sherlock getting hurt. I, well, I like that part. Very much. And John's 'oh-Sherlock's-rather-conscious-now-I'm-just-going-to-crawl-up-the-stairs-to-my-own-bed' inhibitions make me laugh. And, Sherlock, normal people use the loo. I know you know hardly anything about taking care of sick people, but... seriously, give him two minutes! (xD)]**


	8. Say Thank You and You're Welcome

**8**

The room was dark when John woke up again, making his brain much less willing to fully wake up. Waking up in the middle of the night wasn't uncommon, much less when he was living with Sherlock Holmes. However, his head was aching, slightly, and his body was thoroughly exhausted, and the darkness of the room made him not want to get up and move about.

However... memories of the latest predicament prevented him from falling straight back asleep.

He sat up with a wide yawn, flinching a bit in response to the throbbing in his head redoubling. The world didn't sway, though, so he took that as a rather good sign.

Managing to get to the bathroom was easier this time than before. He swiped the thermometer off the nightstand as he carefully walked to the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror was slightly more comforting than it had been before. He wasn't an unhealthy shade of white, at least. His temperature read thirty-seven point nine. It was a low grade fever and, while he was feeling still unwell, it didn't quite designate a level of panic.

Deciding that he was going to get a shower- time of night be damned- was only second on his immediate to-do list. The first? Make sure Sherlock was all right.

He stumbled his way out of the bathroom, managing to find the light switch in the kitchen after a moment of fumbling around. The artificial light flooded the room and he blinked hard, looking curiously into the sitting room.

There was a lump on the couch; under closer inspection, it proved to be Sherlock, smothered under two blankets. One lanky arm was dangling off the couch, pale fingertips brushing the floor slightly.

John smiled faintly before crossing the room, trying to stay remotely silent. Of course, nothing escaped Sherlock's notice, even when he appeared to be asleep.

"You're awake."

John jumped slightly when Sherlock spoke, but he quickly caught the metallic eyes looking back at him through the semi-darkness. "Yeah..."

Sherlock's eyes brushed over John's figure quickly. "You seem to be remarkably steady on your feet, your colour's better, your voice isn't hoarse and your eyes are a bit brighter."

"And you have the uncanny ability to see everything in this half light and deduce correctly, so... you're feeling better, too," John said.

"I'm perfectly fine."

"I'll be the final judge, thanks..." John crossed the few feet between himself and the couch, reaching down to place his hand on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock caught his wrist, however, preventing him from doing so. "Sherlock," John muttered in a low tone, his don't-argue-with-your-doctor warning tone of voice. It usually didn't work with Sherlock, but there was only a brief beat of silence before Sherlock removed his hand and let John test his temperature. "Thank you..."

He was satisfied with the prognosis. Sherlock wasn't warm, except maybe by a touch. And the fact that he was-

"Your fingers are cold," Sherlock complained, pushing John's hand away.

"Yes, I can see that you're fine..." John murmured in a slightly sarcastic tone of voice. He was pleased, though, that Sherlock had bypassed the stages of danger. "Just get some sleep and you'll be back to normal in the morning..."

"I'm not tired."

John raised his eyebrows with a pointed look at Sherlock's sprawled out position on the couch. Sherlock stared back at him evenly, no trace of any emotion except stubbornness being in his eyes.

"Right... Yeah, I can see that," John stated with a smile meant only for himself as he turned away. "I'm going to have a shower, but did you want anything? Tea?"

"Already had some, thanks."

"I'm guessing the option of you making me tea is out, too?"

"Of course I didn't make you tea, you were asleep," Sherlock replied, although his statement was punctuated by a rather large yawn.

"Not asleep now..." he murmured, although he didn't say it loud enough for Sherlock to hear. He didn't care if Sherlock made him tea or not; he was perfectly capable of making himself a cuppa now. He didn't like being taken care of, honestly, so he was trying not to think about what Sherlock had been doing when he had been unconscious. Obviously trying to get his fever down, but...

He hated being sick. It made him feel so helpless. He could understand why Sherlock didn't like being sick, either. For a superior mind to be forced into a submissive state, unable to do anything on his own...

John glanced back at the lump on the couch, wondering vaguely if Sherlock remembered any of it. The worst part of his sickness, anyway.

He turned back to his tea. He wouldn't ask.

Sipping his cup of tea when it was finished, he meandered back into the sitting room to take a much needed seat. He still felt generally weak... His muscles were trying to compensate for the intense workout they had received over the shivering he'd done. He needed to make up for lost fluid as well, from the periods of sweating that he had gone though...

He took another drink of his tea.

"Have you drank anything besides the tea?" he voiced aloud.

"I know how to keep up with dehydration, thanks."

"Usually you dub anything that has to do with your 'transport' as useless and not worth remembering."

"It isn't worth remembering. I don't get sick."

"Begging to differ," John muttered over his teacup.

"On a normal basis, John."

"Oh yeah, of course." John smiled over his tea, taking another drink. "So, you have, then?"

"Yes."

"How much?

"What?"

"How much have you drank? Because, technically, you need about sixty-some ounces a day, on a normal basis-"

"I know."'

"Do you?"

Sherlock gave him an indignant look. John smiled.

There was about two minutes of complete silence, except for the ticking of the clock and their breathing and John sipping at his tea.

"Actually..." Sherlock started, clearing his throat.

"Yes, I'll make you some tea," John replied, standing as he drank the last of his own. "Although, if you're not sick, I can't see why you can't do it yourself..." he murmured teasingly as he walked to the kitchen."

Not five minutes later, John had fixed Sherlock a cup of tea and had passed it off to the slightly disagreeable consulting detective flopped on the couch.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." John paused. "Thank you, as well."

Sherlock's eyes flickered towards him, slightly defensive. "For what?"

"Erm, the- the fever thing," John replied.

Sherlock's response was a "hm" in return as he took a sip of his tea. John stood there, waiting for him to say 'you're welcome' or maybe even 'thank you for taking care of me as well'...

"I'll have a shower after you."

John blinked in surprise. "What?"

"You said you were having a shower. I said that I'd have one after you. Unless you'd like to relinquish first shower to me?"

"No, hang on. I said 'thank you' and you said you want to have a shower?"

"You were clearly uncomfortable with the topic, so I didn't bother to pursue it."

"Uncomfortable?"

"The hesitance in saying it, the slight hovering you were doing afterwards, you were clenching your hands- clear signs of anxiety. There was no reaction until _after_ you had said it, so the topic was obviously the cause of the anxiety. Conclusion, you felt obligated to say it, but hated to, because you hate having people take care of you, but you said it nonetheless. Because of this, you were clearly uncomfortable with the topic; thus, I changed it."

John stared down at him, equal parts surprised and equal parts impressed, as he ever was with one of Sherlock's deductions.

"... Shall I just take that as a 'I'm thankful that you decided to take care of me, too, John, but I can't say it in those simple of words'?"

Sherlock scoffed over his tea, although his eyes quickly darting away from John's face told a significantly different story. John smiled faintly before turning away.

"Right... well... I'm off to have that shower."

Sherlock nodded absently, drawing one of his blankets closer.

John, smiling, shook his head slightly as he turned. "By the way, Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"You're welcome."

* * *

**Another sick!fic reaches a conclusion. I think I meant to have more chapters, but lack of material and perpetual diminishing reader interest had me wrapping it up at Chapter Eight. I've got a stupid amount of writing to catch up on: both of my new multi-chapter ****_Sherlock_****s and my ****_Cabin Pressure_**** multi-chapter, not to mention ****_He's Only Ever Human _****and anything else I might be forgetting. Not to mention the copious amount of research I'm doing for a personal novel and that personal novel to work on. So, uncharacteristically, I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed. xD**

**Hoping you've enjoyed ****_Cold Fingers, Warm Hearts_****. Thank you again for all of your support. It means a lot. If you've followed the story thus far, congratulations, you've put up with another sick!fic by me. Looking forward to any thoughts you have on this chapter, as always!**


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